As Twilight to the Western Star
by Leizu
Summary: John writes to Sherlock post-Reichenbach.
1. One week later

Sherlock,

Stop this. It's old. You've made your point, you're really _very_ clever- enough now. Come back and tell me how you did it, I will be suitably amazed and gaze upon you in wonder, and you can go back to prancing around solving mysteries in obscurity. Everybody wins.

Come home, Sherlock.

John


	2. One week, three days

Sherlock,

You've thus far managed to make the front of the Daily Express every day since you left. Congratulations. I'm sure you're sat in a dingy little flat somewhere, reading it all and thinking it hilarious. You could never throw me a bloody bone, could you? If you don't want me blogging that you're alive then _fine_, I'll keep it to myself (though woe betide you if you choose not to tell Mrs. Hudson)- we don't have to tell _anybody_. We don't have to do anything you don't want to. Just, come back.

It's your funeral in three days. I'm sure every second of it will be awful. I hear Anderson and Donovan will be there- to dance on your grave, no doubt (or possibly to make sure you've gone). I can't decide where to sit- do I get sobbed on by Molly? Or perhaps the fluctuations between hatred and grief from Mrs. Hudson- one minute you're "poor Sherlock", and the next "that hateful man"? Mycroft would probably be the most restful, assuming he deigns to turn up; what with all the negative press it's highly likely he won't.

Maybe I just won't shower between now and then and try and get a pew to myself. Oh, didn't you hear? It's in a church. I was hoping if I picked something annoying enough you'd get in touch, but apparently you're really very stubborn. You usually would have surrendered by now.

Surrender, Sherlock. Please.

John


	3. One week, four days

Sherlock,

You're the most selfish person alive, you know that? Does that make you proud? Sherlock Holmes, the best at loving himself! Did you think about the effect on me at all? Of course you didn't. You only consider others after the fact.

I'm going to keep messaging you. I don't buy the "message undelivered" emails. You're somewhere, reading these. You probably think it's hysterical, don't you? I don't care. Laugh all you want. I miss you and I'm not ashamed of it.

God, Sherlock, don't make me beg. _Please_ don't make me beg. For the love of Christ just give up the charade and _come the fuck home_.

John


	4. One week, six days

Sherlock,

It was your funeral today. You've probably seen the condensed highlights courtesy of the world's press, but I'll fill you in on the more interesting details.

Mycroft came. He read your eulogy. There's a media blackout on its contents, but seeing as it was so boring I actually nodded off at one point I'll assume that's more for Mycroft's sake than yours (though when was that ever not the case?). If it were me, I wouldn't want to take credit for anything so dreadfully dull, either.

I ended up sandwiched between Mrs. Hudson and Molly. As I'm sure you can imagine, I missed most of the talking over their choking sobs. Molly has now said "I can't believe he's gone" so many times that it has lost all meaning, and Mrs. Hudson has decided she just misses you.

You know what I'm going to have to say eventually. I know you never wanted to hear me say it, so I'm not going to- not yet. If you keep up this bullshit then I'm going to have to put it into words. There. I threw down the gauntlet. Pick it up.

John


	5. Two weeks, two days

Sherlock,

I could tell you the secret story of Lestrade's arse being saved by you. Everyone keeps saying "saved by you from beyond the grave", but we both know that's bullshit. Everyone still believes that you invented Moriarty (something I am attempting to rectify, more on that later), however many have come around to the fact that everything not connected to Moriarty was genuine.

And I'm not going to tell you how. Nor am I going to tell you why Anderson is on probationary leave. Lestrade has made sure there's no paperwork relating to the facts so unless either he or Anderson is feeding you information, you're never going to know why.

There's a simple solution of course, but I've said it so often it's beginning to sound like begging so I won't. Don't forget my other threat- God knows I haven't.

John


	6. Two weeks, five days

Sherlock,

Lestrade has officially decided that I'm going to go off the rails, so he's having me followed. I'm sure you read about the police escort I already had, but this is a second, covert operation. He seems to think that it's all very subtle and that a former soldier can't tell when he's being followed by someone with zero surveillance experience (should I be offended? Somehow I'm offended), but it makes a nice change from him staying over all the time. Partly he was staying because his wife kicked him out for good this time, but he also seems to be pretty worried about me. Don't know why.

Going back to that thing I'm not going to tell you, Donovan has been demoted. Wiped that smug look off her face, I can tell you. Wouldn't it be wonderful to know why? Oh well. Guess you're not that interested.

It's interesting how often recently crucial evidence in high profile cases has been showing up unexpectedly. Obviously various copycats are trying to break into the "consulting detective" line of work, but usually they're pretty terrible. Well, maybe they're not terrible. Maybe they're just not you. Anyway, apparently the crucial bits from the scenes keep showing up with all the other collected evidence, crime scene photos taken on department cameras, all that kind of thing- but the thing is, nobody on the staff can remember doing anything with it. I only know about it because Greg showed up and thought it was me trying to carry on without you.

You just couldn't stop, could you? You really can't turn it off. I can't say I'm surprised, but frankly I'm hurt. You'll carry on helping the police and solving mysteries but you can't even let me know you're alright? I knew you could be cold but this is seriously taking the cake.

Speaking of cake, Mycroft keeps sending me guilt invites. Wants me to come round for dinner. Doesn't even send a sexy secretary to force me to come, he sends proper invitations through the post.

Don't make me say it.

John


	7. Three weeks, four days

_Sherlock,_

John was staring blankly at the laptop screen, wondering what to say next. He knew that if he had any chance of persuading Sherlock to come home, he had to keep reminding him that there was something to come home _for_. The problem was, he was running out of things to say. Obviously he could keep begging, but that didn't seem to have worked. Sherlock wasn't going to read any kind of gossip or trivia if it wasn't work-related, and the notoriety of the Moriarty affair meant there was little to add. It was all in the papers.

He wanted to tell him that Molly had applied for a transfer; but Sherlock probably wouldn't care. He also wanted to tell him that he was seeing a therapist who thought that John wasn't dealing with his friend's death; but it wouldn't be the same without him physically there to laugh. The words wouldn't come.

John wanted to tell him that he'd left a void. The absence of him was everywhere he looked. Every time he made a cup of tea, he'd open the fridge cautiously; then remember there wouldn't be anything in it. He kept half-expecting his clothes to disappear again, kept wondering why it took so long to have enough clothes to put in the wash, kept opening cupboards and only finding food, kept looking around and waiting and hoping and still- nothing. No change. No bullet holes in the wall. If something went missing it was because he'd misplaced it. When he was watching the news, he kept hearing things he knew Sherlock wouldn't know and would desperately try to delete from his mind; so he'd turn to taunt him...and he'd stare around the empty flat, suddenly aware that he was alone.

He'd spent the last night in Sherlock's bed. It was probably the most use it had ever seen. It still smelled like him. John had laid there for an hour, staring at the empty space next to him, feeling the absence and almost being crushed under it. He had stared at the empty space and run through the memory of the last time he'd been there.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock had been tearing his way through the flat for over an hour. The contents of the various kitchen cupboards were strewn over the floor, papers had been flying everywhere and the letter opener had come dangerously close to John's head. Sherlock was desperate for a fix and he knew that somewhere, John had hidden his heroin. He didn't know where, he just knew that it wasn't where he'd put it and he'd checked all the places John would usually hide something. He'd taken books of the shelves- accidentally ripping a couple of pages of the older volumes with his desperate shaking; he was convinced that there must be some between their pages- and when they'd turned up empty, he stopped. Behind him, John carried on pretending to read the newspaper.<em>

_"You're not going to find it." Sherlock whipped around and saw John doing his best imitation of nonchalance, pretending to be interested in the sex life of some footballer. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. For some reason, John's feigned confidence made him lose his temper. He picked up the books he'd just been searching and started throwing them at him. "Ow! What are you- ow! Sherlock, stop it!"_

_"Give it to me!" Sherlock went over and grabbed the front of John's shirt, pulling him towards him until their faces were barely three inches apart. "Please, John! You don't understand- _I need it, NOW_!" John smiled a sad smile, put a hand on Sherlock's face, then started trying to remove the fingers clutching at his chest._

_"I'm sorry Sherlock. I can't. Mycroft took all of it." Sherlock seemed to take several seconds to fully comprehend this, and John spent that time eyeing him warily. Turning him down for his hit could have dire consequences. Hoping to earn himself a little sympathy, he added "I'm so sorry."_

_Sherlock closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Eventually, his grip on John's shirt slackened and he laid his hand flat. John thought he saw a single lone tear escape, but Sherlock stood suddenly and turned around._

_"I'm going to go and buy some, you know that."_

_"No," said John softly, trying to be understanding, "you're not. You know that." He laughed quietly. "I can give you cigarettes instead if that's any good to you?" Sherlock's ears pricked and he turned around, surprised._

_"You wouldn't."_

_"I would." Sherlock looked torn. John had always been surprised that Sherlock's nicotine addiction seemed to be every bit as strong as his one to heroin, but that day was the first time he had ever used that fact to his advantage._

_Around an hour later John found himself laid next to Sherlock, having passively smoked an entire packet of 20 superkings. The doctor in him was highly displeased, but as it seemed to have satiated Sherlock he didn't much care. There was a slight mist still hanging in the air, and he wasn't looking forward to trying to get the smell of stale cigarettes out of the flat. He looked over at his best friend, whose eyes were still closed as he rode the last wave of his nicotine high; and John's mind started to wander. He began wondering how on Earth Sherlock had managed before having John there to help. He'd always had Mycroft, sure; but it wasn't the same. Mycroft intervened when an obvious crash was coming, but the one that day had caught them both completely unawares- one minute he was fine, the next he was tearing the house apart looking for the little bag of white powder he'd thought was hiding somewhere._

_He'd lied, of course, about its presence in the flat. As a personal joke he'd hidden it under the washing basket. The closest Sherlock ever got to the washing basket was if he happened to drape the shirt he'd been wearing somewhere in its vicinity. Mycroft had wanted to create lots of little bags- some icing sugar, some flour- but John was too lazy. It also somehow felt too cruel._

_Sherlock opened his eyes to find John staring at him. "What?"_

_John started out of his reverie. "What what?"_

_"You were staring at me. Are you judging me for failing?"_

_"No, I was just...thinking." At any normal time, Sherlock would have made some kind of snarky comment about John's thinking capabilities, but on this particular occasion chose to keep his mouth shut. He smiled a little smile and searched his friend's face, wondering what John had been thinking about that he didn't want to share._

_They laid there for another hour before John nodded off. Sherlock sought out a blanket, covered John, and then went downstairs. He agonised for a few hours over whether it was acceptable to go out and try and score after John had given him an entire packet; then went back upstairs and got back in the bed. He so badly wanted to go score that he didn't want to be alone._

* * *

><p>John stared at the screen, looking at where he'd typed out those three little words he'd promised never to say; the three words that represented the one time he'd betrayed Sherlock in any way. He wasn't going to send it. Not yet. He just wanted to have it out there. He just wanted to know that he could say it. He closed the laptop without saving anything and went up to bed.<p> 


	8. Three weeks, five days

John came downstairs, still half asleep this early in the morning. He started to move towards the kitchen for his cup of tea, then he froze. He slowly moved his head, surveying the flat. Something was off. He looked around, trying to pinpoint the exact location that had made his hair stand on end. He couldn't see anything out of place, and yet...

He spent five minutes quietly checking everything was the way he left it. He got to the boxes stacked in the corner, placed his hands on the lid, then stopped. He hadn't looked at Sherlock's things since they'd been put away. He kept moving his hands slightly, tensing the muscles in his arm; then he just couldn't do it. He didn't open the box.

He went over to the kitchen and found a cup of tea waiting. He whipped around. He didn't remember making it; nor did he think Mrs. Hudson would make it without his noticing. He went back to the tea and picked it up, inspecting the counter top as well as the mug itself. He couldn't see anything on it.

He sighed. He must have made it himself without remembering. A sadness descended over him as he realised that he'd let himself hope- it had just been for a second, just one tiny second; but that second had been enough. The last of that glimmer of hope left him, and he felt cold.

* * *

><p><em>Lestrade was picking up all of Sherlock's papers and trying to stack them into neat piles. John watched this for a few minutes, confused. It wasn't until he picked up a cardboard box and started putting the papers into it that John understood.<em>

_"You can't put them away. He needs those." Lestrade stopped, looking at John sadly. He was making that face. The face they all made. Why was everyone making that face at him?  
><em>

_"John..."  
><em>

_"What?" John was clearly angry. Lestrade sighed.  
><em>

_"You _saw_ it, John. Come on, you're a doctor- you've got to know-"_

_"This is different!" John was shouting all of a sudden, and he wasn't quite sure why. "You know him, Greg, you know how clever he is, how brilliant, how-" he stopped, searching for the right words; he kept thinking 'extraordinary', but it just wasn't enough.  
><em>

_"Human." John pulled a face.  
><em>

_"He was more than that, he-" he could see that look again, that sympathetic look; the one he hated, and he couldn't contain himself- "STOP MAKING THE FACE!" Lestrade started.  
><em>

_"The...face?"  
><em>

_"The face. That everyone is making at me. That 'better walk on eggshells, his b- Sherlock is dead' face. Stop making the face, stop walking on eggshells, and _stop moving his stuff_." Lestrade looked to Mrs. Hudson and Molly for support. Neither would meet his eyes. After a few seconds' careful consideration, he put the papers back down on the table and put the box on the floor. He walked over to John and placed a hand on his shoulder._

_"I'll be here. Whenever you need. Face or no face." John watched him leave, then turned to stare at the skull on the mantelpiece. Behind him, he heard Molly and Mrs. Hudson leave and close the door with a muffled click. He thought he'd won.  
><em>

_The next morning, he came downstairs to find the flat almost bare. There was a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner, with a note sitting on top. He couldn't tell whose handwriting it was. He looked around to ask Sherlock, then slowly closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.  
><em>

_"He's not dead. He's not dead. He's _not_ dead, he's _not dead he's NOT DEAD_." He'd been repeating it over and over in his mind ever since he'd left Bart's; it had become a kind of mantra. If he didn't repeat it, he started to get overwhelmed. Hearing it said out loud validated it, somehow. He took a few more deep breaths and looked back at the note._

Once you're ready, we'll move them into storage. We'll leave them right here for now.

_He peeked inside the top box to find the skull staring up at him. He considered taking it back out, but found that he didn't want to touch it. It didn't feel right to separate it from Sherlock's other things. He closed the lid again._

* * *

><p>John drank his tea and stared at the box. He got up and went over to it a few times, then found he still couldn't open it. After an hour of agonising, he decided to go out. He thought maybe a stroll in Regent's Park would do him some good.<p>

If he had opened the box, he would have found it to be missing a skull.


	9. Four weeks

John was rifling through his wardrobe, looking for his ties. He'd finally accepted Mycroft's invitation to go to dinner in an effort to make him stop asking. He was looking for the black one with the silver stripes on it, but it didn't seem to be on any of his shirts. He kept flicking through his scant selection, wondering what could have happened to it; while in the back of his mind he could almost see Sherlock pouring acid on it to see what happened. He pushed that thought aside.

He bent down to look amongst his shoes, then spotted it near the back. He reached in to grab it, then noticed something else nestled in between his old trainers and his slightly-too-pointy formal shoes. Picking up the tie first, he pulled out the lump of material and saw that it was purple. He only knew one thing that particular shade, and it couldn't be…

He dropped the tie to stretch out the thing in his hands. It certainly felt like- but, how…? He looked around, wondering if he was being watched and this was just some cruel joke; but there was no-one there. There never was. Turning back, he lifted it to his face and tentatively gave it a sniff.

It smelled vaguely of stale cigarettes, formaldehyde and _him_. John couldn't believe it. He kept it pressed against his nose and inhaled- there was no mistaking it now. It was Sherlock's scarf. The one he always wore. The one he wouldn't let John wash. The one he was wearing that day at Bart's.

* * *

><p>Molly was chewing on her pen, staring blankly at the papers in front of her. She vaguely registered her phone ringing, then a few seconds later it occurred to her that she needed to answer.<p>

"Hello?"

"Molly Hooper?" the voice sounded vaguely familiar, though she couldn't quite place why.

"Yes, who's this?" There was a clear silence on the other end of the line as the voice clearly decided to weigh up whether to tell her or not.

"A friend of John's," it said eventually. "He was supposed to meet me tonight, but he didn't turn up."

"Oh," said Molly, thinking that it was odd that John would be agreeing to go anywhere. She'd certainly had no success in getting him to leave the house. As though the voice knew what she'd been thinking, it said:

"I'm very persistent." She was slightly taken aback.

"Oh. Well. It's not really like John to just not show up. Didn't he let you know he wasn't coming?" Even now, John was dependable like that.

"No. His phone is off and nobody is answering at the flat. Mrs. Hudson appears to be out." Molly frowned slightly. This was all worrying, but she wondered why she'd been called.

"Why don't you go round?" The voice made another of those weighted pauses.

"I'm rather far away."

"Okay. Why did you call me? And how exactly did you get my number?" Another pause, longer this time.

"Molly Hooper, 29, employed in the mortuary of University College Hospital, recently transferred from St. Bartholomew's, one sister, currently sitting at your desk on the eighth floor with a somewhat shocked expression." Her mouth opened in shock and she dropped the pen she was holding. The voice chuckled softly, then added "You shouldn't chew pens, it's a bad habit."

"H…how…how did you…?"

"That's not important right now, Molly. I need you to do something for me." Molly regained some of her composure.

"Do something for you, after you've rattled off my employment history, demonstrated that you're watching me and won't even tell me your name? That doesn't seem all that wise to me." The voice laughed.

"These are all excellent points, Ms. Hooper. I suppose if I told you my name, you might be more inclined to assist." The voice paused again, clearly risk-assessing the situation. "My name is Mycroft." Molly gasped slightly.

"Oh, you're- you're Sh- you're his brother."

"Yes," he said, his voice breaking a little, "and I need a favour."

* * *

><p>Molly wrapped her coat tighter around herself. She'd knocked twice on the front door, but nobody had answered. She didn't have any keys, so she wasn't entirely sure what Mycroft expected her to do. She knocked again, then decided it was worth giving the door a quick push. It opened. John hadn't even bothered to put the chain on.<p>

"John?" she called, advancing into the dark. She clicked the light on, and locked the door behind her. "John?" She couldn't hear any noise coming from upstairs.

She opened the door to the flat, and gasped slightly at what she found. Illuminated in the half-light from the landing, she could see that someone had been in Sherlock's boxes. The contents were scattered all over the floor, with a few papers and books thrown haphazardly over the table. Another box had clearly been upended onto the sofa, with the Cluedo board poking out from underneath myriad bits of paper and a collection of oddments. She turned the light on, then went over to the kitchen. Still no John.

"John? Are you here?" she called, going up the stairs with a greater sense of urgency than before. She opened the door to his room, and found it empty. She paused before going past Sherlock's room, wondering if he'd have gone in there; wondering if she could do so herself. She walked quickly past it, then pushed open the bathroom door. John was sitting against the bath in the dark, holding his legs to his chest, something purple in his hand. Her hand hovered over the light switch, then she decided against it. She went over to John and sat down next to him. She wondered if he needed her to put her arm around him.

They sat like that for a while, neither of them saying anything. Molly wasn't sure if John even knew she was there. Eventually, he moved his head a little.

"What happened to his things?" John asked croakily. She paused.

"Which things?"

"The ones he- the ones collected at Bart's." Molly gave him a sad look.

"I think Mycroft has them." John didn't move again for another several minutes.

"Did he send you?"

"Yes," Molly said, wondering whether to elaborate on her story. John laughed once.

"Thought so. How did you get in?"

"You left the door unlocked." He blinked.

"_I_ left…did I?" He racked his brains. He couldn't remember locking the door. He couldn't even remember the last time he left the flat.

"John?" Molly said, in the soft voice John was becoming very used to. When he didn't answer, she said "can I ask you something?"

"You just did." He smiled weakly at his own pathetic joke.

"Why didn't you meet Mycroft?" John stared at a point that seemed a long way off. Eventually, he reached over and held the scarf in front of Molly's face.

"Smell this." She gave him a strange look. He brandished the scarf again. She gave it a small sniff, and raised her eyebrows at him. He was looking at her expectantly.

"What am I supposed to be smelling?"

"It's his scarf!" Molly looked blank. "He only has one of these scarves, and it always smelled like this because he said I'd ruin it if I washed it- he has this sixth sense about when I steal it to wash, it never even made it to the washing machine!" He laughed. "And he was supposedly wearing it…then. So what was it doing in the back of my wardrobe?" Molly opened her mouth, but no words came.

"You must have taken his things and just forgotten-"

"No, Molly, I didn't. I would remember a thing like that," he said firmly. He'd spent the last few hours going over it in his mind, and he was sure. Molly searched around for another explanation.

"Well, you were in shock, you'd just watched him-"

"Molly! Stop this!" He drew the scarf to his chest and clutched it there, breathing heavily. "Something is going on. Just the scarf I could handle, but then there's the tea, and the skull!" She gave him the pitying look again. "I'm not crazy."

"I didn't say you were-"

"But you were thinking it." It wasn't a question. John took a few steadying breaths, then explained. "Two days ago, I thought someone had been in the flat. I couldn't see anything moved or missing, it just felt like someone had been there. I can't explain it. I searched around, nothing was missing, so I went to make my morning cup of tea; _and it was already there._ I hadn't made it myself, before you say anything." Molly looked sceptical. "Okay, you still don't believe me- so riddle me this. His skull is missing. It was in the top box, I was going to leave it on the mantelpiece but then I couldn't; and after I found the scarf I decided to check the boxes and the skull is gone. Nobody has opened those boxes since you and Greg stacked them in the corner, and the skull was definitely in there then." John ran his fingers through his hair. Molly put her hand on his shoulder.

"I think maybe you need to go to bed..." she trailed off, looking at the dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks.

John opened his mouth to argue, then realised he wasn't going to win. Molly was clearly convinced he was gone. She probably thought he was delusional.  
>"I think you're probably right," he said, smiling slightly as he conceded defeat. He stood up, then rubbed his legs- they were stiff after several hours on the bathroom floor.<p>

As he watched Molly help him clean up the flat, he decided he'd show her. He'd find Sherlock- wherever he was- and he'd show everybody that he'd been right not to let go. He would never let go; never stop looking. He wasn't about to give up.

After she'd left, he opened his laptop and decided to write another letter.


	10. Four weeks, one day

Sherlock,

I'm sorry I haven't written in a while. Don't think I've given up- it's just been hard knowing what to say. Your self-control with things that you want is usually pretty bad, so I assumed you'd have come home by now.

I know it was you who made me that tea. I also know you were the one who put your scarf in the wardrobe and took back your skull. What I don't know is _why_. If you want me to know you're alive, email me back. Text me. Hell, you've managed to get into the flat without me noticing- you could leave me a note if you don't want an electronic trace. I don't know why you think it's so important that I think you're dead. Maybe you just don't care about me. Whatever your stupid reason is, I will not give up. Never. I don't care what you try, I don't care how long I have to wait- and I _will_ wait.

So, I did promise that I'd tell you about my efforts to convince people about Moriarty. It's been easier than I thought, actually- I'm sure you're already aware of the "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" internet campaign. People have been putting posters up everywhere and writing it on walls, all sorts. Apparently they're even leafleting, now. People are wearing badges that say "Richard Brook was a lie". People really love you.

I figured the easiest way of convincing people was proving that the basis of the lie was false. The total and utter bullshit that said you faked being as brilliant as you are. Obviously a considerable numbers of criminals are now wanting to be released because they were only convicted based on your work and testimony (you didn't think about that, either, did you?), so it's been in Lestrade's interest to prove you weren't lying. All the people you've helped came forward. And I _mean_ all. Dr. Stapleton and her daughter brought about four glowing rabbits to Scotland Yard all the way from Devon just in case that would help. You touched a lot of lives. Even when you were a dick to them, they still came forward to help you. All I had to do was ask.

They've had to re-open a lot of cases where you had a major hand. Surprisingly, that really helped you. Anderson and Donovan were still insistent that the only way you could have known how it was done was by doing it yourself, but the fact that you were pretty damn prolific really helped you. A lot of the time, your alibi was that you were at another crime scene. That ruled you out in most cases. I also think it's worth noting that you have a damned strong ally in Lestrade. He's spent the whole time fighting for you, even when that meant fighting his superiors- his job was on the line, sure; but he'd have saved face by throwing you under the bus and he still chose not to. A lot of people have started to believe that you were that brilliant. Once more people are convinced, it'll be easy to show Moriarty was real. People are still really afraid of him- many aren't convinced he's really dead- but once it sinks in they'll come forward.

I need you to come back to me. I don't work without you. I promised myself I wouldn't resort to begging but that's getting harder and harder to stick to. You gave me your scarf- and I know how significant that is. Why can't you just tell me you're alright? Please, Sherlock. Please.

John


	11. Six weeks

_"Hello?" John presses his phone to his ear as he closes the door to the taxi.  
><em>

_"John?"  
><em>

_"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" Sherlock sounds different. He can't quite put his finger on it, but there's something off about his voice.  
><em>

_"Turn around and walk back the way you came." John looks around. He can't see anybody, but he wouldn't put it past Sherlock to be hiding somewhere.  
><em>

_"No, I'm coming in."  
><em>

_"Just do as I ask! Please." Now he's worried. Sherlock sounds panicked. Not the usual kinds of panicked, either; this isn't 'I need to solve this now' panic, nor is it 'I need a fix of something' panic. John's chest constricts- something about this is wrong. Very wrong.  
><em>

_"Where?" John walks around, looking.  
><em>

_"Stop there."  
><em>

_"Sherlock?" He keeps turning, inspecting the windows now- he still can't find him.  
><em>

_"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."_ What?_ John turns towards St. Bart's hoping that he's misunderstood- but no, there he is, standing on the ledge. He's standing on the ledge._

_"Oh, God."  
><em>

_"I- I- I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."  
><em>

_"What's going on?" John asks the question but something is telling him that he doesn't want to know the answer.  
><em>

_"An apology." Sherlock pauses, and John isn't sure what to say. Sherlock rarely apologises and when he does, it's usually to get something he wants rather than because he actually means it. "It's all true."  
><em>

_Well, John knew that already. Why would Sherlock be telling him again? "What?"  
><em>

_"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." No. This wasn't possible. John can't process what he's hearing- it just doesn't make any sense. Everything he's seen since the day he met Sherlock has been unbelievable...but real. He's sure. No. There's something else. There has to be something else behind this. There always is.  
><em>

_"Why are you saying this?" he says, but what he wants to say is 'who's making you say this? What's going on? Could you just for once let me in on your little game?'  
><em>

_"I'm a fake." He sounds broken. The man on the other end of the phone looks like Sherlock, his voice is similar, he's wearing the coat and the scarf, but he's not Sherlock. Sherlock has never sounded like this. He sounds like the world has shattered around him and John doesn't know why.  
><em>

_"Sherlock-"  
><em>

_"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." John's head is spinning. He can't understand what's going on and it hurts, but it won't stop.  
><em>

_"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met-" when you dazzled me, when I knew you were something else, when I knew you were what I'd been waiting for but I didn't even know I was missing something- "the first time we met- you knew all about my sister, right?"  
><em>

_"Nobody could be that clever."  
><em>

_"You could." And John believes it. He believes it more than anything and nothing that anyone can say- not even Sherlock himself- will convince him otherwise. Sherlock is impossible but the only thing more impossible would be it all being a lie. It has to be true. It wasn't just a dream.  
><em>

_Sherlock laughs a little. There's a pause, and John thinks he's stumped him. He's proven it- Sherlock is lying _now_ but John still doesn't know why. "I researched you," says Sherlock, sounding cavalier, "Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's just a trick. A magic trick."__  
><em>

_It can't be. Even with research, how could he have known about Harriet's drinking? It wasn't exactly a matter of public record. John decides it's gone far enough and starts off towards the hospital. This game was too much. No more, now.  
><em>

_"No, all right, stop it now."_

_"No! Stay exactly where you are! Don't move!" Sherlock sounds panicked again. Not wanting to provoke him into doing anything stupid, John stops walking.  
><em>

_"All right," he says, raising his free hand. He looks up and Sherlock has stretched out his arm.  
><em>

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" John feels sick. Something is wrong.  
><em>

_"Do what?"  
><em>

_"This phone call, it's...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." He sounds detached. John understands but doesn't want it to be true, he wants to be wrong but he knows he isn't.  
><em>

_"Leave a note when?"  
><em>

_"Goodbye, John."  
><em>

_"No, don't-" He sees Sherlock hang up and throw the phone aside. "Sherlock!" he shouts, but he knows he's too late. Nothing feels real as he watches everything unravel around him- Sherlock, throwing his arms out; stepping forwards and falling...John's feet won't move quickly enough as he tries to run...then something hits him and he falls, ears ringing...he can see that he's hit the floor but he can't feel it, he knows he needs to get to Sherlock but his limbs won't respond.  
><em>

_After what feels like an age, he staggers to his feet and somehow gets over to a crowd of people huddled over a crumpled figure.  
><em>

_"Sherlock...Sherlock..."  
><em>

_He's standing over a body, it's wearing his coat and his scarf and it's the right size and shape; but it can't be him because there's all this blood, so he takes its pulse and there's nothing- no life, no heartbeat, it's all gone. His brain has shut down and won't let him think because if he thinks then he'll finally understand that his friend, his best friend, the best thing that's ever happened to him is d-  
><em>

John woke with a start. He blinked, looking around his dark, dingy hotel room. He thought that if he left the flat, the nightmares would stop; but they only seemed to have increased.

It was colder than he was expecting. He looked over at the window and saw that it was open- but he couldn't remember opening it. He was too tired to examine this closely. Recently he'd been absent-minded enough that it was difficult to remember much of his day. He couldn't remember checking in to this hotel, for example; and yet here he was. He went over to the window and closed it, stopping there for a few seconds to collect himself. He drew the curtains and went to sit on the bed.

Outside, a shadowy figure stole from underneath the large tree opposite and vanished into the night.


End file.
